


Undead in the Apocalypse

by HereForTheGerryMichael



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Cute, First Kiss, Happy end??, I Love You, M/M, basically let them be happy, uhhh unreality??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:20:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23590711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HereForTheGerryMichael/pseuds/HereForTheGerryMichael
Summary: Gerry Keay is alive and human- and so is Michael! That isn't right, right? ((Season 5 spoilers since this takes place then!))
Relationships: Gerard Keay/Michael, Gerard Keay/Michael Shelley
Comments: 10
Kudos: 70





	Undead in the Apocalypse

**Author's Note:**

> This fic takes place in season 5. The basic Idea is that Gerry is alive due to these events, Michael survived being yeeted from the Spiral because the Spiral doesn't follow rules.   
> I do not claim to be a good writer, I much prefer to draw, but gosh if I didn't make this i'd be very mad at myself. I also didn't edit this so good luck yall!

Gerry was angry before he even opened his eyes. Of course. He’d been summoned again. Jon had ripped his page out, promised to burn it, and even called him Gerry in such a kind, quiet voice that Gerard had been happy to settle with that being the last thing he did hear.   
His eyes fly open with a rage burning in his chest, ready to yell, to swear, to be the biggest dick he could be- but found no one in front of him. He knows where he is, sort of. It’s the Archivist’s office. The first sign something is very, very wrong is that there isn’t a page in sight. There isn’t much to see at all, really, and he finds himself fighting down a creeping fear as he looks out into the dark room. Rage is replaced by fear, and instinct kicks in, reaching for a flashlight on the scattered, filthy desk. The light cuts through the dark in a very unnatural manner, reflecting off of cobwebs. So, so many cobwebs.   
“Fucking. . . what the Hell?” His words sound clearer than before. More solid. A second sign something isn’t right. He hardly has time to register what it might mean when his light goes out, and the darkness falls heavier than before.   
The third sign something is very wrong with the late Gerard Keay is that he runs. He runs for the door he can’t see, but knows is there. He runs out into the archives, Trying to ignore the ground pulling at his feet, the darkness rushing up behind him, breaking every light it meets. He runs up the stairs, trying to ignore every agonized cry he hears as he does so, every thud against doors, every pool of blood on the ground. Then, suddenly, it all seems to stop.   
As Gerry pushes open the front doors of the institute, he’s met with a harsh, silent wind. And that is all. He takes a moment to try to catch his breath, and it’s this final clue that causes a very simple fact to click in his mind: he’s alive. He frowns, looking down to see nice, ironed dress pants, with a matching blazer and tidy button up to match. Not an outfit he’s sure he ever wore in his life, though something Gertrude-   
Gertrude. She must have picked this. Of course she had.   
He wonders how many people came to his funeral. Not many, he’s sure, and looking down at what he assumes are his funeral clothes, he doesn’t mind that. He turns to look at his reflection in the glass doors of the institute, but finds his image warped. There’s too many colors he knows aren’t there, and even if he really is a dead man walking, he knows his face isn’t meant to look like that. It starts to give him a headache, and he looks away, though he can’t help but smile.   
Yes, something is very clearly wrong. Back to life for under an hour and he’s already run into (he assumes) the Dark, Web, and Spiral. Judging by the silent fo around him, he’s standing in the Lonely now, which is odd, because he’s sure the creeping feeling of being Seen on the back of his neck as well.   
“Jon, you fucker, what did you do?” Gerry smiles wider at the sound of his own voice. It’s clean, dull, and alive. He’s alive. He’s alive, and whatever Jon did (he’s sure it was Jon, the man looked very lost) to fuck up the world, he at least knows the Distortion survived it.   
“Michael?” There’s a snapping noise, like a whip cracking, and the fog parts like a curtain in a theatre, seeing it’s work is no longer worth it here, and allowing Gerry to see the once-familiar streets of London.   
Michael is not there. So, so much else is. It’s hard for Gerry to process what he sees.   
The sky is filled with eyes, but all at once, it isn’t. It’s empty, open, endless, and sometimes he sees things fall up into it. The ground hungrily pulls at anything that stays still for too long, pulling everything from cars to magpies into the unforgiving earth. There is blood in the streets. It pulses and ebbs, not unlike a heartbeat, and Gerry begins to wonder with a twisting feeling in his stomach (he has one of those now!) where so much blood could be coming from. He takes a shaky breath and begins to walk.   
The shoes are not ideal. Sure, if he was meant to only be dead in these clothes, that wouldn’t have mattered, but now that he’s walking around what used to be London, he finds the stiff, polished dress shoes very impractical. In typical Gerry fashion, he decides it’s best to just take what he needs. Clearly, he thinks, the world is at it’s end. If he steals from one little shop to be more fit for this new world, is it really that bad? 

-

Michael screams. He writhes on the ground that once was a wax museum in an agony he cannot comprehend as impossible shapes dance in his vision. He tries to grab at his hair, but his fingers are too short. He doesn’t understand. He wants to understand, and that terrifies him. The pain of impossibility is too much for him, both in mind and body. He tries to think, remembering flashes. A figure in the doorway. His doorway. His? When did he become a he? His feet scrape the dirt and stone and debris, finally pushing against something solid. He doesn’t care what it is, it’s something real. True. Physical. Michael cries out again as the last bits of impossibility fight to kill off the rational parts of his brain. He hears a door creak, but he knows deep in his soul that there isn’t a door, there never was. He hears words, but every attempt to comprehend them sends him into a flailing fit of fear and pain. Finally, his mind gives up, and Michael Shelley drifts away from the waking world. 

-

Gerry had been happy to see the door. It meant, perhaps, Michael was alright. Despite the screaming in the background of his every move, and the few times he had taken off in a sprint to avoid some other horror he hadn’t known could be, but now that he was physically more comfortable, he found it hard to be too upset. He wasn’t in a skin book anymore. That was fine by his standards.   
The door swings open, or, it sounds like it does. Gerry has long since gotten used to the door that always was open, having never been open, while all at once it wasn’t there at all. To his surprise, a woman stepped out. Gerry began to lift the cricket bat he had chosen to arm himself with, when the woman stepped aside and gestured into the halls.   
“You called.” The voice is wrong. Usually, this would bring a bright smile to his face. Usually, this odd, impossible sound formed into a laugh. A new fear begins to worm into his brain.   
Ha. Worm.   
“What happened to Michael?” he hisses. The woman- no, this isn’t a woman. The Spiral tilts it’s head to the side.   
“Michael. . . was never meant to be me.” Gerry feels an angry heat grace his cheeks.   
“I’m sure you aren’t meant to be this, either! Where is Michael?!”   
“I am Helen now.”   
“Fucking lovely, I didn’t ask.”   
“No, I suppose not. Are you coming in?”   
Of course he wanted to say no. Of course he wanted to hit this thing that wasn’t even a little bit Michael anymore with his bat to show it who the real boss was, but he knew better. So, instead, Gerry huffed, slung the bat over his shoulder, and entered the familiar, impossible hallways.   
The door swings shut behind him, and Gerry doesn’t bother to look behind him. He’s sure there isn’t a door there at all, just more dimly lit halls. Helen, as it had called itself, walks briskly ahead of him.   
“So what happened? Where’s Michael?” he asks again, the anger he could always rely on rising back into his chest. Helen turns it’s head in a way that shouldn’t be physically possible, continuing forward without slowing.   
“You are Gerard Keay.”   
“Yep.”   
“Michael wanted you here.”   
“Yeah, I know.”   
“I am not Michael.” It’s head turns back around, and Gerry finds it hard to keep up. This new avatar, while much taller than he’s sure Helen was meant to be, walks with a quickness that he struggles to keep up with. A pace that doesn’t match the uneven steps it takes, like a badly animated NPC in a video game. Focusing on this begins to give Gerry a headache, and he vouches to look at the walls instead.   
“So you kill me now, is that it?” Of course this is how he dies. He got too comfy with a monster, and now it’s coming back to bite him. Helen laughs. It isn’t Michael’s laugh.   
“Oh, no.I kicked him out! Thought he was gone, really, but there he was. Jonathan likes you, you know.” Gerry frowns, not sure where this conversation is going. Knowing the Spiral, it might not be going anywhere.   
“Yeah. I like him, too, I guess.”   
“I don’t think he’d want me killing you. Though, he is rather busy at the moment.” Something about the way it says that makes Gerry’s hair stand on end, but he tries to shake it off.   
“Great. Your point is. . ?”   
“Must there be a point?”   
“Right. Should’ve known.” She laughs again, and Gerry’s mind drifts back to Michael. 

He heard the screaming before Helen even opened the door for him. It felt familiar, but he wasn’t sure how. When the door did finally open for him, it clicked.   
The thing on the ground was painful to look at. It reached and kicked and clawed and screamed a horrible horrible scream of pain and fear. Gerry steps out of the yellow door, and in a (rather stupid) moment of hope, calls out to it.   
“. . . Michael? Michael is that you?” It’s impossible to tell. The voice doesn’t echo the way Gerry remembers it, and the body, while tall and lanky, is a reasonable amount of tall and lanky. As the body becomes less and less difficult to look at, it occurs what must be happening. What is impossible, but clearly is unfolding before him.   
Michael is falling back to humanity.   
The screaming stops, but the colors and shapes persist for another several minutes. Gerry tries to shoo them away, but they don’t exist. Never have. Getting too close to the still body of what he assumes to be Michael results in a headache as sharp as a knife, so he quickly gives up. Eventually, though, the Spiral seems to have left, and a fog settles around them.   
“Great. You’re back,” he huffs at it, though it could be much worse. Gerry decides it can’t hurt to try to find some ID, and sure enough, both a driver’s license and a Magnus Institute nametag have the words “Michael Shelley” written across them, with pictures of this fluffy, bright-eyed blond. He glances over at the body beside him, feeling a jolt of fear before he’s able to see Michael’s chest fall. He’s not dead. He’s breathing. He’s fine.   
He’s not Gerry’s Michael.   
It shouldn’t bother him, really. He’s sure they’re a lot alike, this one is probably safer to be around, but it’s odd. Michael, as Gerry had known him, was sharp, strong, and terrifying. The man passed out in the dirt. . . well, he’s beautiful. Despite the dirt that had settled into his hair and clothes, Michael Shelley is beautiful. His face is spattered with freckles, and his too-pink cheeks and arms bring to mind images of angels in paintings. His nails are cut short, with chipped nail polish that matches his bright blue eyes.   
His eyes. Gerry realizes Michael is awake apparently at the same moment Michael does, because Gerry is reaching to help him up just as Michael begins to struggle to stand. There’s confusion on Michael’s face, but then it lights up. His smile is wide, and it makes his eyes crinkle.   
“Gerry! Hello!” He laughs and tucks a curl behind his ear. A pointless gesture, as it quickly bounces back. For once, Gerry struggles to find words.   
“I- yes. You’re Michael.”   
“I am! It’s so nice to be me. Is that strange? Oh! The air! Right, I need to breathe again. And blink! I have eyelids! Real ones!” He laughs again, a light, happy sound. Gerry feels his face flush, and this time, it isn’t from anger.   
“Yes, you do. Are you okay? I don’t know how you survived that. Here, I know standing is nice-”   
“Yes! I can stand!”   
“Right, well, you can sit, too.” The idea of sitting seems to be just as delightful as standing, and Michael happily plops back down onto the ground, crossing his legs and folding his fingers together in his lap. Gerry tries to think of what to say. What to do. Poor Michael, how much does he know? Gerry’s name, at least, but how long ago does it seem to him that they last met? Does Michael even know he died?   
Michael seems to be coming down from his happy high of being real, as Gerry can see a flash of fear in his eyes as he looks around. The fog is thicker now, and silent. It’s hard to ignore dead silence in a city like London. Gerry reaches out and puts a hand on top of Michaels’.   
“Some shit has gone down. I think you guessed that much.”   
Michael nods.   
“I have no idea what, but it’s big. End of the world big.”   
Michael’s eyes widen, and he nods again.   
“Hey. At least we aren’t alone.”   
Michael manages a smile, and with an angry hiss, the fog retreats again. Gerry rolls his eyes.   
“Ugh. Yeah. So. . . yeah.” He shrugs, and Michael smiles, leaning forward to rest his head on Gerry’s shoulder. He wonders if Michael is this comfortable with everyone, or if it’s stress, or-  
“It’s nice to really meet you, Gerry,” Michael says softly. Gerry sighs and leans back on him, his face itched by wild blond hairs.   
“Nice to meet you too, Michael. Are you ready to fight the world together?” Michael laughs, which Gerry had hoped for, and leans back to shake his head.   
“A nap first, maybe?” he asks, that wide, bright smile spread across his face again, “I’m exhausted, um, if you don’t mind, that is?” Gerry nods, already taking off his (very newly stolen) jacket for Michael to rest his head on.   
“Good plan. I’ll keep you safe, alright?” Michael nods, frowning at the jacket.   
“Are you sure-?”   
“Just take it, okay?”  
“The ground is fine-”  
“Yeah, no. Sleep, Michael. Or at least try.”   
So he does. Almost instantly, and Gerry wonders what it must feel like to have not slept in years. He reaches a hand out, smiling as his fingers crack with the movement. 

-

Michael doesn’t sleep, but he does manage to rest. He had been so scared, of course it had been Gerry’s worried face he saw first. Of course, when he needed it, Gerry had been there for him. He sighs a light, happy sigh, and shifts on the jacket to get more comfortable.   
He had missed Gerry. How long it had been, he wasn’t sure. Ten minutes? No, more than that, because Helen had taken over much longer ago than ten minutes, and he knows the longing had been there before that. How long had he been an abstract part of the Spiral? Trying to think about it makes his head hurt, and he finds himself twitching, so he tries not to think about it. It’s hard to form a timeline of events in the Spiral, but he does his best. Gerry must have last visited before Helen took control, he knows that, but Helen feels like a forever, and Gerry was always there, until he wasn’t.   
Michael turns and opens his eyes. Gerry is walking back to their little campsite. There’s blood on his face that hadn’t been there before, and he’s clearly limping. The anxiety Michael hadn’t been able to feel as the Spiral rushes up into his chest and he feels like he can’t breathe.   
“Gerry? Gerry what happened?!” His voice comes out more strangled than he anticipated, and it clearly startles Gerry at least as much as it does Michael himself.   
“What? Oh. Nothing. Had some trouble, something tried to get over here, but I chased it off.” He shrugs, swinging his bat over his shoulder. Michael nods, but he doesn’t quiet believe it.   
“How much does it hurt?”   
“Not much.”   
“Let me see?”   
“It’s fine.”   
“What if it gets infected? What if you get sick and I can’t help and there’s no hospitals? What if-”   
“Michael.”   
“-you got something in it and it’s going to get into your blood and-”   
“Michael.”   
“-you need to get your leg off I can’t cut your leg off what if I kill you?!”   
“Michael! Michael. It’s okay.” Gerry’s cold, sticky hands are on his face, and Michael stops talking. Gerry sees this as a moment to talk, and adds on a small, reassuring, “It didn’t break the skin, I promise. Just hit me real fucking hard in the shin. I’ll bruise, but I’ll be okay.” He tries a smile, one that doesn’t quite work, with his eyes being too tired and the quickly drying blood restricting his movements, but it’s enough. Michael relaxes (as much as he can) and lets out a shaky breath.   
“Right. Sorry. You do this stuff all the time. I don’t need to worry about you,” he mutters, leaning into Gerry’s hands. He doesn’t want to know why they’re sticky.   
“You look like you’re going to cry,” Gerry comments. The realization that it’s obvious is enough to push Michael over the edge, and he throws his arms around Gerry and breaks down sobbing into his chest. He feels Gerry running his (still very gross and sticky) hands over his hair, trying to comfort him while clearly not knowing what to do.   
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry I- Gerry, I don’t know anything, I’m lost and useless and the world is ending and I tried to take a nap while you got hurt! I don’t know how much time has passed, or where I- who I? What, even, that I am anymore! I want to be Michael Shelley. I think I am, but even though something feels very wrong with that, it doesn’t matter because the sky is looking at me!” He starts another sentence, but cuts himself off coughing. Gerry glances up, and sure enough, the sky has eyes again.   
“Hey, uh, yeah, the world is shitty. But it always was, okay? Now we can just see it easier. And I’m sure whatever personal issues you’re having make sense. You weren’t human, remember?” Gerry puts his hands on Michael’s shoulders and pushes him back to look into his eyes. He gets a sort of nod, sort of shrug in response.   
“Gerry, do you think you can still love me like this?” he asks finally. The look on Gerry’s face makes his vision go watery again, and he tries to pull back, but Gerry catches his hands. His normal, human hands with just the right amount of bones.   
“Did I hear you right?” Gerry asks quietly. Michael nods, tears spilling over again.   
“I understand if you don’t I- I’m not useful anymore and-” Gerry (finally) wipes his hand off on his shirt and puts it over Michael’s mouth before he can tumble into another anxious rant.  
“No no no shh. Stop. You love me.” he can’t help sounding stunned. Michael’s eyebrows scrunch together.   
“Yes? I told you, didn’t I?”   
“You’ve said many memorable things, but I can guarantee that wasn’t one of them.”   
“Oh. Oh dear. Um. I- I suppose I forgot?”   
“To confess you’re in love with me?”   
“Yes.”   
“And. . . you thought you had.”   
“Yes.”   
“Are we - uh, are we dating?” The word doesn’t sound right to Gerry. He doesn’t date, he doesn’t have the desirable qualities to do so. Except, apparently, to lanky Spiral monsters. Michael sputters for a minute, trying to find an answer, but seems to fail at every turn. Eventually, Gerry huffs.   
“Oh, fuck it. You’re cute.” 

Michael hadn’t kissed many people. Gerry had. Still, they each fumble at first, as if together their experiences are erased and they’re left clueless. Gerry pulls back, scanning the dazed and flushed face of Michael Shelley. 

“Yeah,” he decides aloud, “I still love you, Michael.”


End file.
